DIY
I was lucky enough to come of age, or at least in terms of music, during the early 80’s. After all the turmoil, insanity and creative brilliance of the 60’s and early 70’s, rock music was experiencing a sluggish middle-age. Elton John. This week’s sensitive singer/songwriter. The bloated epics of Yes and ELP. For a kid who’d been born in some back alley, and raised in your neighbor’s garage, this unexpected slide into complacency was just about the worst thing anyone could wish for. Where was the outrage, the piss and vinegar? Had we really forgotten how to sneer?
And then, thank god, punk came along. A big fat finger raised to the world, and if it ain’t Stiff, it ain’t worth a fuck. From out of nowhere, there were suddenly thousands of bands, playing everywhere. Or more like not playing, since most of them didn’t know how. They had rude names. Torn shirts. Some snotty little jerk with spiked-out hair screaming into a microphone. And because no one in their right mind would give them the time of day, they put on their own shows, formed their own labels, cut their own LP’s. It was the era of DIY. Do It Yourself, you wanker.
Part of this was purely reactionary. An insecure kid, spurned by the big boys, deciding to build his own sandbox. But there was an upside too. Despite all the rancor, the puerile rage, DIY was a positive force. A refusal to accept the status quo. A realization that if the system wasn’t working, it was incumbent on us would-be artists to come up with something better. And that’s a lesson that all of us writers—unpublished, self-published, or Stephen King—would do well to remember.
In a lot of ways the current boom in self-publishing echoes those DIY years. And yet it’s obvious something’s missing. We’re earnest, not angry. Polite, not punk. There’s a hesitancy, a hint of self-abasement, as we stumble along our way. Because, obviously, if we were real writers, if we were Stephen King, then none of it would be necessary. The borrowing money from your friends. The weekends at the book fairs. The constant drag of selling yourself to a world that couldn’t care less. No wonder we all get discouraged. Who wouldn’t, given all that?
So the next time you do, I suggest a cure. It’s cheap, it’s easy, it works. Get in your car, assuming it runs, and aim it any direction. Find a long, open stretch of road. Apply your right foot to that pedal on the floor until the windows start to rattle. And the soundtrack? Your call. Still, if it were up to me, we’d go with the Sex Pistols. God Save the Queen. Four dumb kids all screeching away about not having any future. But not to worry – none of us do. Which is, of course, the reason we started writing in the first place.